


Truly

by bklt



Series: Tether [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Act III, Canon Dialogue, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 20:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bklt/pseuds/bklt
Summary: Isabela could have lived with never returning to Kirkwall, regretful but able to shrug it off with a sigh and a few inner monologues about things she could have done better. Like three years prior when she returned with the Tome in hand, there was something else she had to make right.Hawke and Isabela see each other again after three years. There's a lot to be said-but whether they voice their thoughts is another thing entirely.After all, they weren't good at this. They never were.





	Truly

When Isabela took to the Free Marches, she felt a sense of misplaced homecoming, a shamed child crawling back to their parents after running out of coin from their failed soul-searching. The familiar lapping of the waves against the hull of the ship felt ominous, the endless expanse of blue now as meaningless as her three year reprieve. The cold night caused her to shiver, made more bitter by the reality that she was travelling in the hold of the ship. Her place should be on deck, barking orders and navigating eastern waters that used to be hers. If she wanted to be above deck now it would be to swab it, so her pride kept her inside. She may no longer be Captain, but, she reassured herself, that was by technicality only.

She could have lived with never returning to Kirkwall, regretful but able to shrug it off with a sigh and a few inner monologues about things she could have done better. Like three years prior when she returned with the Tome in hand, there was something else she had to make right. Castillon was in Kirkwall somewhere, and the opportunity to finish what had begun so long ago was important enough to draw her back, eclipsing her fear for what—and who—would be waiting for her there.

An unwelcome image pried its way into her thoughts. It was surreal: Hawke’s red sash soaked with her blood and pressed to her throat while Anders quickly tried to stop the bleeding, huddled in a locked room of the Keep where onlookers couldn’t see him casting his spell. It felt like a dream to Isabela, observing it all outside of her body. The low light of the lanterns swirled around Hawke’s smug smile, who revelled in the knowledge that she was the dashing rogue who saved the Queen of the Eastern Seas from being captured. It all worked out, because it always did with Hawke. All Isabela saw was that it was her fault. Her goodbye wasn’t a farewell at all-it was intense words and turning away without hearing Hawke’s reply, leaving before she could begin to think of regret.

Yet Isabela couldn’t escape her even across the sea. The name of Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, was on everyone’s lips. The audacious Fereldan had become a symbol for the city that had once shunned her as a refugee merely taking up space, and it would have been hilariously ironic if it wasn’t the last person Isabela wanted to hear about. She kept silent in the many taverns she entered over the years, and not even her love of boasting could make her tell anyone that she had known the Champion. Bragging about sleeping with the Hero of Ferelden was one thing, but associating herself with Hawke seemed wrong somehow. Hawke had followed her logical narrative of becoming as big as her heart. Isabela stayed the same, wretched, miserable, and hungover in another inn.

Hauling the trunk of her pathetic collection of worldly possessions into the Hanged Man, she was hit with the smell of alcohol and piss. Bloodshot eyes of regulars stared at with curiosity. She slapped down what little coin she had left onto the bar, talking to Corff behind her back so she could glare back at the prying glances, who quickly turned back to their drinks and pretended they hadn’t seen her.

“I’ll have a room for as long as this’ll get me,” Isabela said.

“Actually…”

She spun around to see what the matter was, the bartender sliding her money back to her. “Varric’s been paying on it since you left. S’all yours, same as you left it.”

Palming her coins back into her pouch and taking the key that was handed to her, she made her way back to her old room, shoving the door open as if she was hoping to catch someone off guard.

It was much the same, albeit cleaner than she remembered. No doubt Varric had made sure it hadn’t fallen into a wintery blanket of dust and decay in her absence, picking up the rotting food or discarded bottles that had once lined her floor. Opening the drawers of her desk, she saw her old notes and different pieces of writing, presumably—and thankfully—still untouched. Knick-knacks and other miscellany she couldn’t carry still lined the dressers, the significance of them lost to her. They were probably enthralling once, bought or taken for the pleasure of acquisition and quickly forgotten on the shelf.

A low, gravelly voice from behind her broke her reverie. “Huh. Looks like Aveline owes me some coin.”

Isabela’s gaze turned downward to see Varric with his arms crossed and wearing his usual expression of vague amusement. A new scar crossed the broad bridge of his nose, but he otherwise looked unchanged from the years.

“She must’ve been pretty sure to take a bet with you.” It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t have Aveline’s vote of confidence, and she wasn’t looking forward to what she had to say on the matter. Her finger traced a sweeping pattern over a patch of dust that Varric must have missed, rolling it between her fingers until it crumbled. “Guess I have you to thank for keeping the room up.”

“Yeah. I thought you might show up again.” He walked into the room proper, looking out the window before leaning against Isabela’s desk. “So, why did you come back?”

“Ran out of coin.”

“And you came here?”

“I guess I did.”

Varric shook his head. Her rouse wasn’t fooling him, and he likely figured he wasn’t going to get anywhere by prying. “Does Hawke know you’re back?” He said her name like a secret, a forbidden word that would undo her if she heard it.

“Not yet.”

“Don’t you think you should do something about that?”

“I don’t know. Does she want me to?”

The dwarf frowned. “Rivaini, Hawke was a mess. There was a stretch where I didn’t see her sober for half a year. Maker, Aveline had to arrest her at one point.”

“She did what?” Isabela had been arrested by Aveline before. She still thought the twenty-person street brawl in the Lowtown streets was worth two weeks in a cell. But that was Isabela; she was no stranger to seeing the inside of a brig. Hawke must have been in a bad way if Aveline took her in.

But that important detail didn’t seem worth expanding upon. Varric once again shook his head. “I’m telling you, she wasn’t herself. And I don’t mean just because of you, but it didn’t help. I think you owe her an apology. She did save you, after all.”

As if she needed a reminder. “I’m sure I’ll see her one way or another.”

The dwarf grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s going to find out, if she hasn’t already.”

“I’m aware.”

It was clear to her that Varric had expected a more lively conversation, looking disappointed and uncrossing his arms. “Well, it’ll be nice to have a neighbour again. Just, try to keep it down? I don’t need a play by play of all your exploits.”

Isabela laughed. It was hard to stay tense around him. “I’ll try and leave room for the imagination.”

Varric smiled, knowing he had an in. “Why don’t you come by for a drink later? Don’t worry, Hawke’s off on a job. We’ll be alone.”

“Ooh, just how I like it.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad you’re back, Rivaini.”

Later that night, Isabela took Varric up on his offer, drinking from his private stock and playing a few rounds of Wicked Grace. Varric caught her up on all that had happened over the years. Neither of them mentioned Hawke.

“Things could be better. Meredith and Orsino are at it more than usual. More mages have gone missing. Anders is getting restless.”

“They’re still at it?” Isabela asked, taking a card from her boot and sliding it into her hand.

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Your timing is fortuitous, Rivaini. Looks like that’s becoming a theme.”

“I need to stop being so predictable.” Without thinking, her hand snapped at Varric’s and slapped it onto the table, a glimmer in her eye. “Oh, Varric. Still have to work on that.”

The dwarf chuckled and released his hand, revealing the card he had tried to slip from his coat sleeve. “You got me.”

She greedily grabbed the coins from the center of the table, piling it to the side among the other pieces she had won that night. They never played for high stakes, and Varric knew Isabela was tough competition. If she had to hazard a guess, this was his way of giving her money without outright handing it to her. He and Hawke were set for life, as far as riches went, and a few pieces of silver here or there wouldn't be missed.

“What about everyone else?” Isabela asked as they began another round.

“The same, more or less.”

“Merrill?”

Varric stared at the cards in his hands, keeping his expression even. “She doesn’t get out much. I told her, “Daisy, if you don’t get some sunshine, you’ll wilt.”” He put his cards down onto the tablecloth and took a drink. “That damn mirror. I have to get food delivered to her or else she’ll forget to eat.”

“Oh, Kitten…” Isabela said to herself. She should go by and visit her, she thought.

“What about you? You had to be up to something while you were gone,” said Varric.

Isabela sighed. “I dipped into Tevinter and Rivain for a few weeks, but I was mostly in Antiva. Nothing inspirational for your next novel, I’m afraid.”

“Same shit, different place?”

“Same shit, different place.” She revealed her hand, a triumphant grin on her face.

“Didn’t even have to cheat to win this time,” said Varric.

“It’s not cheating if cheating’s part of the game,” Isabela said, palming more coins to her side of the table.

Cleaned out of the money he had on him, Varric leaned back and inspected his old friend. “So. Castillon.”

She froze. “Know about that, do you?”

“Please. I thought you knew me.”

Of course he knew about Castillon. The dwarf had connections that put the Coterie to shame, and he seemed to know everyone’s business no matter how private. It’d be horrifying if it weren’t for how forthright he was in his dishonesty. It was that tactic of revealing his intentions so unabashedly that people felt obligated to tell him theirs. She supposed that was part of his charm. He knew what people wanted and was sincerely interested in what anybody had to say, and she suspected that all of his connections were so he’d always have the right thing for the right person.

“Have you heard anything about him?” Isabela asked.

“Nothing yet—though I might have a lead on someone who has.”

“Good. Let me know.” She slid her thumb over her glass and stared at the dregs of her drink. “That’s why you knew I’d come back, then.”

To her disappointment, Varric laughed. “Maker, no. You were going to come back whether Castillon was here or not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You said it yourself. You’re predictable—but not in the way you think you are.” Varric stood up, scooping Isabela’s winnings into a red velvet sack, the coins clinking together. “You’ll figure it out, Rivaini. I think you already have.” He pulled the drawstring closed and placed the bag in Isabela’s hands. “Remember what I said about keeping it down.”

“Right.”

When she returned to her room, she pulled apart the floorboard underneath her trunk and placed the bag inside without a second glance.

* * *

 

Isabela wasn’t entirely sure what her plan was, and it was soon clear that the extent of it had been simply not to see Hawke, as if willing it hard enough would make it happen. It was hard to avoid her, especially with how frequently she came to the Hanged Man. The first few days were mostly spent in her room, listening for that airy voice over the raucous cheers from patrons exclaiming Hawke’s name whenever she walked in. She’d press her ear to the door, trying to listen to her ask Corff whether or not he’d seen her. Whatever his response, Hawke never went up to knock on the door. Either the bartender lied or she knew better than to intrude.

By day four, she figured she had done enough hiding. She had unpacked and rearranged her room more than once, and the game of avoidance quickly became tiresome. She decided to brave the tavern. Isabela stood in the same spot she used to and ordered a stream of whiskey, knowing Hawke was sure to come ask about her again.

Even if the chorus of exaltation hadn’t announced her entrance, she would have known it was her without looking at the door. Hawke had a presence, a way of filling the room no one else could. It was that same magnetism Isabela had felt long ago, where she instinctively knew that Hawke would be someone important. The sound of leather boots drew closer, that offstep from a slight limp as a result of her bad hip.

“Oh, that looks like the house special! Whiskey flavoured with rat droppings!”

Isabela pounded her cup onto the bar, looking down at the scratched wood. She wasn’t drunk enough to look at Hawke. “You don’t have to keep checking up on me. I’m fine.”

Three years, and that’s how they decided to greet each other. She could sense Hawke recoiling, hesitation in her voice. “I’m just here for the rat-flavoured whiskey.”

“Right.” If Hawke was going to pretend that nothing had happened, she might as well pull the arrow out of the wound herself. “Remember what you said after the mess with the Qunari?”

“I’m...proud of you for doing the right thing,” she recalled.

“It may have been the right thing, but it was also the dumb thing. The relic was mine. I should have kept running.” Every time she listened to her conscience it, bit her in the ass worse than she could have imagined. Doing the right thing was what got her in trouble in the first place, the reason she had no choice but to acquire the Tome for Castillon. Young and scared and out of options, she agreed, not thinking about the wake of destruction she would leave. If she followed her original plan and kept her course to Ostwick, she would be free of all this, and she could have shrugged off her selfish decision as something in character and been at ease with it. She wasn’t made for being heroic; she just had to get by. Like she always did.

“I couldn’t have saved Kirkwall without you,” Hawke said.

“Bullshit.” Isabela pushed herself off of the counter, turning to face Hawke. “You could have stormed the Keep and slaughtered all those Qunari if you had to...you and Aveline. I mean, look at her—she’s a woman-shaped battering ram. Her eyes finally settled on Hawke and her stomach plummeted. The signature red smear and clever blue eyes were the same, the complimentary colours as striking as ever on her tan skin. Her crow-black hair that Isabela used to tease her for being so messy was shorter and looked as if it grew in wrong. But it was the thick scar across her neck that she averted her gaze from, a testament of her shame and cowardice from Hawke dueling to make up for her mistake. It was no better than Isabela taking her blade and drawing it across Hawke’s throat herself, and knowing her, she would have endured it with a smile as she bled out on the floor.

“The fact is,” Isabela swallowed, “You and I have nothing in common anymore. You’re a Champion, and I’m just a lying, thieving snake.”

Hawke looked hurt at Isabela’s self-assessment. “You’re just afraid of being anything else.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” she growled. A character study was not what she was in the mood for, and she certainly didn’t want Hawke’s pity.

“I bet there’s a heart of gold in you. We just have to take it out and sell it,” Hawke said.

That she still believed in her after everything she had done was absurd, and she couldn’t help but laugh, the joke laying in the sentiment than the actual humour meant to be gleaned off of it. “Tell you what. I’ll be here if you need me.” Assuming the conversation was over, she turned back to be left alone with her drink. But Hawke stepped closer, sidling up against her and looking at Isabela’s hands.

“How about right now? I want to talk more.”

“We’re doing that right now, aren’t we?”

“I know it’s been a while, but usually I’m the obtuse one, remember? You know what I mean. I think it’s understandable that I’d want to know what you were up to after you left.”

Isabela sighed and finished her drink with a burning gulp. “Your place or mine?”

“Let’s go with yours. I’m sure the awkward walk back to Hightown is something we’d both like to avoid.”

Before Isabela could nod to Corff as a sign to put her drinks on her tab, Hawke handed him the pieces of copper to cover the cost. Isabela rolled her eyes. If she wanted to pay for it, she wasn’t going to argue. She turned to walk up to her room, Hawke trailing behind her with heavy steps up the creaky staircase. The familiarity which Hawke had always followed her back to her room was noticeably absent, the way she entered more like visiting for the first time rather than the hundreds she had before. Isabela lit a stick of incense, watching the smoke lazily trail into the air as Hawke scanned around with a look of nostalgia.

“So, how was your trip?” The casual way she asked made it sound like Isabela had gone away on a pleasant vacation to visit distant relatives, not made off like a thief in the night.

“Uneventful.”

“That’s not what I heard from Bethany.”

Isabela winced. The younger Hawke had taken a shine to her, tales of her adventures fascinating her in a way Isabela found innocent and pure. Bethany always struck her as a lonely girl, someone who never had anyone but Carver and Hawke—her Hawke— for company. Writing to Bethany felt like her way of taking her somewhere beyond the tower, even if those tales were purely fiction. They didn’t talk about Hawke—and Isabela never wrote her—though Bethany must have known what happened. Part of Isabela wondered if she felt grateful to have someone who talked to her because they wanted to, separate from the shadow of her older sister. Isabela hadn’t considered that Hawke would only hear about her from Bethany, and those stories likely meant as much to her as they did for her little sister.

‘She likes my stories,” Isabela said. “I had none to tell, so I made them up.”

“Oh.” Hawke reached out to touch a small mabari statue, rotating it to face her and staring into its gilded snarl. “Well, I’m happy you still write to her.”

“I don’t do it for your benefit.”

“I wasn’t implying that you did.”

“Sure.”

Hawke traced her finger over the same tracks Isabela had left through the dust, licking her dry lips. “Where did you go?”

“Antiva, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Mostly.”

Isabela jumped when Hawke’s hand brushed the rest of the dust off of the ledge, her frustrated laughter ringing hollow and thin. “My, give me time to interject! Your sentences are so long I can barely get a word in!” Hawke said.

“I wasn’t the one who wanted to talk. If you’d stop dancing around the issue, we could get this over with much faster. Sometime tonight, even.”

No longer to rely on smalltalk to take the edge off of what would inevitably be an unpleasant conversation, Hawke sighed and wiped her hand on her trousers. “Why leave? You left the Keep saying something weird and cryptic only to be gone the next day. You could have at least wrote a note and left it by my open window. That would have been romantic.”

“I was scared.”

“Is that it?”

“What else do you want me to say, Hawke?” she snapped. “I made a mistake. I was a coward. I didn’t care what would happen to you or anyone else because I was selfish and didn’t want to face what came next. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. You leaving was proof enough that you felt bad about it. I’d say you’ve had plenty of time to beat yourself up. No need to belabour the point.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

Hawke waved her hand. “Come now, ‘Bela. You know I’m not that deep. I just wanted to know why.”

“And now you do.”

“I do. So what now?”

Isabela scoffed. “What do you mean what now? I told you I’d be around.”

“Do we have to be mad at each other? As much as I love everyone else’s company, they can be so…”

“Intense?”

“That’s one way to put it.” Hawke cautioned a brush against Isabela’s shoulder. “I missed having you around.”

The touch made her flinch, burning in a way it shouldn’t have. “You cut your hair.”

“Shaved it, actually. You know me, I’m nothing if not dramatic.”

“I’ve read enough Orlesian tragedies to know the symbolism behind that sort of gesture.”

“Dramatism.”

“Aveline had to arrest you.”

Hawke scratched at her wrist. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“And that stunt you pulled with the Arishok? What were you thinking?” said Isabela.

“I wasn’t going to let them take you.”

“I would’ve been fine. I could have jumped ship and made it back to shore. If you died-”

“I didn’t.”

“Hawke, listen to me,” Isabela said. It was so typical of her to not understand the gravity of every situation she entered, waving it away with a smirk and off-colour comment. Hawke didn’t understand that her duel with the Arishok was one of the most frightening times in Isabela’s life, the already small Fereldan insect-like compared to the sheer physical mass of the Qunari leader. Seeing the flash of steel slice into her neck was indescribable, Hawke stumbling backwards and gurgling on her own blood in a way that reminded her of drowning. That space of uncertainty where Hawke was simultaneously alive and dead moved in grueling slow motion, and it was in that moment she realized too late how her world would crumble if she were to fall.

“You think you’re untouchable and that you can make it through whatever life throws at you. I came back because I thought you’d be safe. I thought it’d all be over once the Tome was in their hands—but you had to go and do something as idiotic as dueling an Arishok.” She lowered her voice, her incoming admission difficult to voice even after all of the horrid whiskey. “I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t survive that.”

Hawke bit her lip and nodded. “It wouldn’t have been your fault, you know.”

“It might as well.”

"You could say the chant three times and beg for forgiveness if you really feel so strongly about it.”

“You know I don’t beg.”

“Ha.”

The two women gave themselves time to breathe, their conversation exhausting them. They weren’t good at this. They never were.

“Perhaps we should kiss and make up, then,” Hawke said, as if there was nothing left to do, the perfect solution to their problem. Somehow Isabela had forgotten that she could be this insufferable.

Isabela shook her head. “You’re-”

“Incorrigible? I thought you liked that about me.”

“I _liked_ that about you,” Isabela said. “It’s been three years.”

“And you’re still wearing that bit of cloth you took that one night.”

Isabela’s hand automatically drew upwards to touch the material tied around her arm, the once striking red faded from the sun and passage of time. She knew what it meant, just as she knew the meaning behind what she told Hawke the final night she saw her. “I am.”

Hawke lifted her hand on top of hers, her thumb brushing against the soft fabric that once belonged to her. When she leaned forward to kiss her, Isabela pressed against her chest and turned her head, stopping her from moving closer.

“Don’t.”

She could feel Hawke’s breath stop underneath her palm before she fell away, putting her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I just thought that…”

The sentence slid out of the air in a decrescendo, Isabela crossing her arms tightly and staring at the stained wooden floor. “Look. I can’t pretend that I didn’t miss you. I thought about you every day, but the fact I returned is… another thing I had to fix.” She sighed and looked back at Hawke, who was pale and wide-eyed, that look of fear when anticipating a blow that couldn’t be avoided. “I know what this looks like, but there are other reasons I came back.”

She slumped, dejected. “Then…”

“I need time, Hawke. As much as you say you’re fine with it, part of you is shrugging it off so everything can go back to how they used to be. We both get caught up in our feelings and do stupid things. Maybe we both need to use our heads for once.”

“I don’t-” she closed her eyes in defeat. Her exhale was shaky, the weight of a thousand words unsaid finally leaving her. “It wasn’t that you left. I know you get restless if you stay in one place too long. It was that...after everything, I thought I was at least worth a goodbye.”

She was worth that and more, and Isabela showed her appreciation by leaving as if they hadn’t seen each other as naked and vulnerable as they’d never admit. Her heart wanted to crawl its way out of her throat and beg to be seen, a grotesque offering laid on an ornamental platter for Hawke to accept like a benevolent saint. All she had were a scant collection of words to serve as a replacement.

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgave you the moment I came into this room three years ago and saw it was empty.” Her whisper was choked and desperate, blinking away tears. “I was never angry with you. Not for a second.”

This was everything Isabela was afraid of hearing. She wished Hawke could hate her, that she could have a reason to be released from the ties that bound them together and made them break their rule of never dragging feelings into this—whatever _this_ had ever been. It was too complicated, too difficult to have her still believe that she could be something she wasn’t, someone worth forgiveness or any sort of investment, emotional or otherwise. Hawke should have gnashed her teeth and demanded a better apology than the pathetic one she gave. She should have told her that all the things everyone had ever said about her were true, and that she finally saw it too. Instead Hawke looked at her with that same look that thrilled and scared her, that hidden reverence that made her want to run and never admit that anyone could ever have such an effect on her.

“See? You _were_ hiding something.”

Hawke laughed and wiped her eyes, allowing herself to smile. “Still able to read me like a children’s book.”

“I do happen to have some basic literacy,” she said, returning her grin.

Hawke exhaled, her shoulders rising and falling with the motion. “So, do I get to know the real reason for why you’re here?”

“Probably... eventually. I don’t want to lead you on a wild chase like last time.”

“Oh, that wasn’t as exciting for you as it was for me?”

“Believe it or not, it wasn’t.” A slow smile crept on Isabela’s lips. “Though, that box of poems we found...absolute smallclothes dropper, those.”

“‘ _Tis been so long since I’ve seen you last_ ,” Hawke recalled the letter from memory, hands clasped to her chest as if performing on stage. “ _I always dream of your shapely ass_.”

Isabela flung her arm forward, reaching to the invisible audience. “ _I ache for your delicious touch...my loins burn and miss you so much_ -”

“- _was it all another lie? Without you, I’ll surely die!_ ”

They burst into laughter, relief at last. An invisible string drew them together like it always did, like it could be no other way. Isabela didn’t stop Hawke this time, wrapping her arms around her back and holding her close. She smelled of leather and amber, and it unlocked something in her head, an old recollection that felt right to bask in. When she pulled back, muscle memory caused her to reach and brush Hawke’s hair out of her eyes before realizing it was too short to do that anymore.

“We’ll talk more, Hawke. I’m happy I saw you.”

“So am I.” Hawke took her cue to leave, her hand pausing on the door handle. “I’ll see you around?”

“I’ll see you around.”

The soft click of the latch echoed through the room, Hawke’s absence making her feel lonelier than she expected. Isabela crawled into her bed and curled up in her torn sheets, hoping that she’d fall asleep so she wouldn’t have to think about it.

 


End file.
